


The Art of Avoidance (and how to fail at it)

by ficklefixal



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Peter Pan | Malcolm is not Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold's Parent, bc fuck the complicated Charmplemills family tree, the adults don't really do much, wendy gets adopted into a friend group that goes "we don't need adult supervision"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24941836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficklefixal/pseuds/ficklefixal
Summary: In which Wendy Darling does her damnedest to avoid Peter Pan, but he's not about to let his Wendy-bird fly away so easily. Everyone else hangs back and watches, but some people (read: Henry and Felix) get involved far too often.(Or, another Darling Pan High School AU where Storybrooke has a decently-sized population to require a public and private school.)
Relationships: Henry Mills/Violet, Wendy Darling/Peter Pan | Malcolm
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	1. so the bird flees...

Wendy Darling would never claim to hate anything or anyone. Honest. But that was before her first day of middle school, when a certain green-eyed boy decided that the perfect way to start off the sixth grade was by yanking on her hair until she turned in her seat and shot him a glare. She nearly got detention for that, if it weren’t for Henry Mills—the Mayor’s kid of all people—telling the teacher what really happened.

Just the thought of getting detention still sends a shiver down her spine, even if that was two years ago. But she’s glad it gave her a chance to talk to (and eventually befriend) Henry—but at the same time, it makes saying goodbye that much harder.

“What do you mean you’re transferring?” His brow furrows and nose scrunches in the way they usually do when he hears something that doesn’t quite fit in with his mood—like that time when he found out his partner on the school trip was the same boy who continuously messed with her—and she’s glad for the foresight of taking him to Granny’s before she broke the news.

“I’m transferring,” she repeats, nudging an envelope towards him. “I got the scholarship to that private school I was telling you about.” _The scholarship you told me to apply for,_ she thinks, only the slightest bit embittered that he too sounded surprised. 

Henry takes the envelope, opens it, and reads the letter that she’d gone over at least five times since it showed up in the Darlings’ mailbox just yesterday.

_Dear Miss Darling,_

_We are hereby pleased to announce that you have been selected for the Creatives Scholarship. The scholarship will cover your educational finances for the entirety of your stay here at the Storybrooke Academy for Excellent Students, provided that your grades remain within the standards we have set for our scholars._

She could recite that whole first paragraph word-for-word at this point, though from the way Henry kept glancing between her and the paper, he probably hasn’t made it past that point yet. Not that she could blame him; she herself spent a good while reading and re-reading it just to be sure that she wasn’t hallucinating the words.

(It took Nana sniffing the paper—it was _scented_ for goodness’ sake—for her to realise that the acceptance letter was very much real, and that in three months’ time, she’s going to be one of the blue-blazered teens milling around the girls’ side of the campus.)

“You got in.” The letter fell out of Henry’s grasp as he said the words, and she nods in confirmation. “You seriously got in!” He leans over the table and pulls her in for a hug, and there’s no stopping the laugh that leaves her lips—at least one of them was happy to leave Storybrooke High behind.

“It was your idea,” she mutters into his jacket, and Henry snorts.

“I know, but getting in is just…” He waves his hands around once he releases her from the hug, and she lifts a shoulder up in a bland half-shrug. She’s ecstatic to be going to a different school—if the clammy hands and insanely quick pulse could be ecstasy—but there’s a heavy weight on her chest at the thought of leaving Henry alone. He’d still be stuck with Pan and his group running around school, and she has to fight to keep the bile down.

Guilt is an ugly thing. It’s thorns and vines growing in your lungs and creeping up your esophagus, threatening to choke you from the inside out. It’s acid pumping through your veins, a secret that would kill you alive if it remained in you.

It’s guilt that remains in Wendy Darling’s system throughout the entirety of summer vacation, and she has to stop herself from shoving a finger down her throat and dry heaving the bile out.

It’s guilt that has her knees shaking when she steps out of the car and onto the lush, green grass of Storybrooke Academy. It’s guilt that renders her mute for a good five seconds as her guide—a preppy blonde named Letha Blake—chatters on about how good it is to have a new face; apparently, everyone in school knows one another, and she’s the anomaly that “everyone’s been _dying_ to meet”.

“Why?” She had asked as Letha steered her towards their lockers (they were neighbours, hence the blonde being her guide).

“Not a lot of people get in with a scholarship,” says the taller girl. “The academic requirements for that are legendary, so most of us here come from old money.”

Wendy’s face must’ve been pale, or shown some form of discomfort, because Letha hurriedly tacks on: “Don’t worry! Cliques aren’t really a thing around here, and if they are, it’s nothing like the public school.”

“I… Okay then.”

The day passes by in a blur to her, or maybe she was too out of it to notice much aside from what happened in her classes (she had an essay to write for English, and a summary of the first chapter of the history book due by the end of the week), and the two boys Letha introduced her to during lunch break.

“It’s the only time the school’s actually co-ed,” explains Vincent Arlowe, who took one look at her and nodded towards Letha. She has no idea what _that_ meant, but from the snort that came out of Emery Charleton’s mouth, it probably wasn’t something she’d be happy about at first.

Her brows furrow at that, and she can’t help but wonder out loud, “Then why bother separating the students into two different campuses?”

“Because the admin is stupid,” says the taller of the two boys, and the comment earns him a smack on the arm from Letha, while Vincent snorts into his drink. It somehow pulls a short snicker from her, though she hides it behind a sip of her juice.

Lunch passed in between bites of food (decent food, not like the crappy stuff served in public school cafeterias), the occasional insult towards the school administration, and several questions about herself. Five minutes before the bell was due to ring, they leave the quad—because it’s where Letha’s group usually had lunch—and both boys ruffle her hair.

“Welcome to the group, Wendy.”

Later, as she’s waiting for Henry in their usual booth at Granny’s, the guilt returns full force. She’s had the luck of being adopted into a new friend group this early in the school year, but did Henry have a decent first day at school? She doesn’t have time to let it simmer under her skin because Henry arrives, prompt as always—apparently, private schools let out a good fifteen to twenty minutes earlier—and he’s got a girl with him.

“Hey,” he says, and the brunette with him offers her a shy smile in response to her own greeting.

“Hi. Who’s this?” Despite the polite tone of her voice, Henry still flushes a little. Looks like she doesn’t need to worry about him much, if the way he smiles at the other brunette says anything.

“Remember the new neighbors that moved in across the street from us?” At her nod, Henry continues, “this is Violet, she and her dad are new to Storybrooke.”

Oh. _Oh._ This was the girl Henry said he’d introduce to her today. And she forgot.

“Nice to meet you, Wendy. Henry’s told me a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope?” There’s a teasing grin on her lips, and she hopes it’s enough to mask how the guilt starts eating at her _again_.

(It must work, because when they leave, all Henry offers her is a quick hug and a promise to meet up again on the weekend—this time, without Violet.)

As she lays in bed that night, Wendy has to re-think her claims of not hating anyone. She _is_ , in fact, capable of it. And right now, there is no one she hates more than Peter Pan.


	2. the king stakes his claim

If there’s one thing Peter Pan is sure of, it’s that he doesn’t do love. Unless it’s love for himself, in which case, he can. Yes, he’s felt the occasional bout of affection towards the Lost Boys, and towards Felix—who’s probably his only and closest friend—but he doesn’t love other people.

However, it seemed that a girl with brown hair and brown eyes (god, her appearance was as dull as her personality) was determined to take that certainty, rip it to shreds, and use them as confetti. At least, that’s what it seemed to him the day she turned around in her seat and shot him the nastiest glare that any twelve-year-old could muster. Aside from Tink and Lily—the former being Felix’s foster sister, and the latter being Rufio’s on-again, off-again girlfriend—no one really said no to him, much less _glared_ at him.

She looked like she had a torrent of scathing words on her tongue, but before she could release them, the teacher took notice and called both of their attention. He’d never forget how her face looked then, almost like a girl who got caught doing something she shouldn’t have. She looked so painfully apologetic in the moment before she turned to the teacher, but there was a fire in her eyes that he wanted to see more often.

And see it he did, after he made it his personal mission to make Wendy Darling’s middle school years an absolute riot.

 _Darling_. God, her name was so fucking soft, so sweet. It suited her the same way her dresses and ribbons complimented the pretty wrapping hiding the storm he knew she kept under lock and key. And that storm often stayed hidden, never showing up except in the tremor of her mouth when he pushed her buttons too much, or in the flash of fury reflected in her eyes, or even (on one occasion, when Rufio went too far and insulted little Henry Mills while she was in earshot) the clenched fists that balled at her side.

He could imagine the crescent marks her nails left against her pretty, porcelain skin—maybe, if he was lucky, she would’ve made herself bleed. Just a little bit. The thought delighted and angered him at the same time, though he was unsure of the reason behind the latter—what care did he have if Wendy Darling hurt herself? If anything, the foolish girl might’ve deserved it, what with her always trying to play peacemaker when things got awry amongst their peers. It’s probably why (and how) the rumors of her making student council once they were in high school happened. He never saw her as a leader, of course, for she was far too soft to be one, but even he had to admit that she had a way with words that made even their teachers falter.

Had she remained in Storybrooke High, he’s sure he would’ve seen her grow into someone he might have to keep an eye out for.

As it was, however, she didn’t show up on the first day of high school. That should’ve been his first clue that something was off—she would _never_ dare miss a single day of school, even when deliriously sick and on the verge of passing out.

(None of the Lost Boys—as his group called themselves—would admit it, but they all worried when she did pass out in the hallway. They later found out that the reason she was in school at all was because she didn’t want to miss the Algebra exam that day.

“Nerd,” Pan snorted when he heard.

He pretended he didn’t see the knowing look on Felix’s face when he passed on the news that Wendy was fine.)

There’s a new girl sitting next to Henry Mills when he and Felix strolled in for Homeroom, right where Wendy would usually sit. This should’ve been his second clue; he knows for a fact that Darling would always sit next to the Mayor’s son, but when each seat was filled and still no sign of his usual target, something like dread settles in his stomach. Where the fuck was Wendy Darling?

He voices this question out to Tink, and she actually looks surprised. “You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?” There’s irritation in his voice, and the blonde rolls her eyes.

“She got a scholarship to the private school. Apparently, her acceptance letter arrived before your last day in the eighth grade.”

“You’re kidding.” Even as he tries to deny it, he knows it’s the only reason she wouldn’t be here. If the fucking flu didn’t keep her out of school, nothing would. Unless she’s transferred to a different one, and oh, everyone knows how she’s smart enough for a scholarship—teacher’s pet, academic overachiever Wendy Darling would be the only person in the shithole known as Storybrooke to get a scholarship to any school she wanted.

He’s in a much fouler mood after lunch, and everyone (even the upperclassmen) knows to steer clear of a clearly angered Peter Pan. However, there was a silver lining, as Slightly pointed out during the last period of the day.

“They still might go to Granny’s,” he had said. Pan knew it to be highly possible; after all, Henry and Wendy would often go there after school. They had their own booth and everything, and if Pan and Felix slipped into the diner several minutes after Henry and the new girl (Violet, they learn her name to be) do, well… No one had to know why.

True to Slightly’s words, she was there. Wendy Darling, prim and proper and looking every bit like the goody-two-shoes that most thought her to be, was waiting in the booth everyone else designated to be hers and Henry’s. She’s in the blue blazer that the girls of Storybrooke Academy wear during school days, and if it weren’t for Felix raising a brow at him, he might’ve blown a gasket right then and there.

How _dare_ she leave him alone in the godforsaken hole that was Storybrooke High?

How dare she fly off like that?

Anger simmers in his veins as she laughs, seemingly unaffected by how different she looks now. There’s something about the uniform that hides _his_ Wendy from the world, something in the way she practically flaunts the fact that she’s gone to a different school that doesn’t sit right with him.

It takes a while of staring at her before it hits him: she could almost pass for an adult. He’d seen it before, in how so many of that school’s students look like they’re going to a job instead of school once they’re juniors. He’d seen it in how most, if not all of the girls from that school always look more adult than they’re supposed to. He’d seen it in how blazers always made anyone, even baby-faced Tootles, look like a grown up. And now he has to see his Wendy look like one.

The thought of her becoming anything like one of those stuffy adults only furthers his anger, and he doesn’t wait for Felix once they’re sure that the trio left.

He doesn’t wait for her to get anywhere near the corner leading to her house before he pounces, hand wrapping around her wrist and dragging her off to the alley between fuck knows what buildings. He knows Felix well enough to be sure he’d block her way if she does get out of his grip, so he doesn’t bother pushing her up against the wall to make sure she doesn’t run.

“What the hell, Pan?” She spits the words out, and he chuckles. There’s the fire he didn’t get to see.

“I should be asking _you_ that, Darling.” Her last name rolls off his tongue like it’s a term of endearment, and it might be. He doesn’t know for sure. “What gave you the idea you could go to a different school, hm?”

She glares at him for a moment, before scoffing. As he predicted, she tugs her wrist out of his hand, but he doesn’t know what to make of her leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her heaving chest.

“That,” she says after a brief silence, “is none of your business. It’s my life, and I’m not liable to tell you anything about it.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” He closes the distance between them, then lifts his hand to stroke her cheek. She used to tremble when he did that back in middle school, eyes flashing fury, fear, and something he couldn’t quite identify. He still doesn’t know what that last one is, but it’s there, though the trembling no longer is. “You’re my Bird.”

Though he’s never said it aloud before, it feels right—both the nickname and the fact that she was his. After all, he was the only person (other than Henry) who noticed her beyond her academic skills. In turn, she was the only person beyond his group whom he kept under his protection, though she’d never know that. It made sense, therefore, that she was his Bird. But from the way her eyes harden, from the way her mouth trembles with what he knows to be anger, she didn’t share his views.

“I’m not your anything, asshole.” Her words drip venom, and this time, he doesn’t stop her when she turns to leave after shoving him away. Felix steps into the entrance of the alley just before she could, and with a groan, she turns to face him again.

 _What the hell_ , her vague gesture at the tall, scarred blond says, and Pan chuckles.

“This isn’t over just yet, Wendy-bird.”

“Oh, I think it is.” With that, she pushes her way past Felix—though she doesn’t have to, him stepping aside when she was within arm’s length of him—a flurry of blue fabric and soft brown hair and a hurricane inside a fragile glass girl leaving the two boys alone.

Once they’re sure she’s gone, Felix turns to him, a question in his slate-blue eyes.

“The game’s just begun,” he says, and they leave the alleyway together.

Later, as he’s lying in bed, Pan acknowledges that while he doesn’t love, he does want and crave and desire. He wants Wendy Darling, craves her, desires her to be his and his alone. He doesn’t love her, of course, but he wants her to bleed and crave him the way he’s begun to crave her. And what Pan wants, Pan gets, even if it’s a stubborn bird who chose to fly away without him.


	3. the bird finds her flock

One thing Wendy quickly learned to appreciate about private schools is the uniform. No longer did she have to stress herself out planning an outfit for the next day—which, for girls, was an absolute must, even if that view was only perpetrated by the same culture that said girls were only valuable if they were attractive—now, all she had to do was make sure her uniform was ironed and ready to wear before heading off to bed for the night. This freed up the time she would’ve spent going through Pinterest and Tumblr for outfit ideas, though that’s not to say she spends less time on the two apps.

That said, she’s not particularly fond of the dress code for Storybrooke Academy. While it made sense to her that the school would be stricter when it came to the rules, she’s got no clue as to how colored hair was discouraged.

Actually, she understands the rationale behind that particular rule, but it made no sense to her. What did hair color ever have to do with how respectable one is, anyway? Absolutely nothing, that’s what. But alas, she was just a freshman—there’s nothing she can do about that just yet.

So she tosses the student handbook onto her bedside table, plugs her phone in, and settles under the covers. Her uniform hangs on the back of her rolling chair, the dark blue of the blazer seamlessly blending in with the darkness of her room once she switches the light off, wholly unaware of the boy standing on the street and looking up into her bedroom window.

Morning sunlight streams in through the gap in her curtains, and with a groan, she burrows herself deeper inside her covers. A few moments of silence pass, a few more precious moments of sleep, before her alarm clock begins ringing. As if that wasn’t bad enough, her phone alarm blares from the speakers, a medley of guitar solos from her favourite songs that Henry put together for her last birthday. Normally, she loves the gift, but not when it’s coupled with the shrill ring of an alarm clock.

A pale hand fumbles around for the clock, switching it off before the rest of her body emerges from the covers. She lets the guitar solos play for a while longer, and then she dismisses the alarm—she’d rather not snooze it, forget that it was snoozed, and have her brothers raise an eyebrow at her choice of alarm tone. It was bad enough when they first saw a My Chemical Romance shirt in her drawer.

Breakfast is a dull affair, she thinks, though it might be because she’s already begun to make comparisons to how different her life is compared to Letha’s. According to the blonde, she never eats breakfast at home—instead, she meets up with Vincent and Emery at Granny’s. They’re regulars there, much like she and Henry are, and for a moment, she wishes she could partake of that morning ritual. It’s not like she’s particularly close with John and Michael anymore—that changed the day she got the scholarship and John didn’t.

Breakfast is a stifling affair, too, between John glancing at her and her parents’ incessant questions about her new school.

“Are people nice?” Asks her mother, and she nods.

“How are the classes?” She hums, pretending to think on it before she replies.

“They’re fine. The teachers are okay.”

She doesn’t eat more than half of her food before she says she’s stuffed, and she excuses herself to bathe and get dressed. On her way up the stairs, her phone chimes with a text, and she looks at it once inside her room.

 **Letha:** _Hey! We’re going to eat at Granny’s before school starts, do you want to come with?_

It’s just one text, and she feels a smile tug at her lips as she types a response.

**Wendy:** _Sure. I’ll just send you my location?_

**Wendy:** _[home address]_

**Letha:** _Got it! See you in twenty; Emery takes FOREVER in the shower_

**Letha:** _I think it’s because he gets high in there at times lmao. Anyway, see you!_

Twenty minutes is more than enough time—it only takes her eight to ten minutes to shower, and five to get dressed. Well, maybe more than five, given the knee-high socks that are part of the girl’s uniform. But she’s sure she’ll be downstairs by the time they pull up outside her house, so she does just that.

True to her guesstimate, she’s sitting on the couch with two minutes to spare, her phone back to being fully charged as her parents say goodbye to John and Michael. She’s already said hers to them as they trooped down the stairs, and when her parents turn their attention to her once the door’s shut, she tilts her head to the side.

“You’re getting a ride with a friend,” her father says, slowly and almost like he doesn’t want to believe it.

“Yes. Her name’s Letha.” The air presses down on her; something in her skin itches and she has no idea what but she’s glad for the honk outside—it must be Letha. Without so much as a hint of hesitation, she grabs her bag, presses a kiss to her mother’s cheek and waves goodbye to her parents as she leaves.

The itch is gone now that she’s outside, and she offers Letha a grin when the blonde rolls down the window by the passenger’s side.

“Hope you’re hungry.” It’s Vincent who speaks, and there’s a smile on his lips as she shuffles to the backdoor and settles in next to Emery. He glances at her from the corner of his eyes and inclines his head in acknowledgement when she greets them, though his lips curl up in a smirk when Letha adjusts the rearview mirror.

“Hold on tight,” he tells her, and that’s all the warning she gets before Vincent slams on the accelerator, tires screeching against the concrete.

One, she realises, none of them must care much for the speed limit. Or if they do, they must be used to it.

Two, she’s never had a white-knuckled grip on _anything_ before, but there’s always a first for everything. She didn’t think it’d be noticeable, given how pale she naturally is, but the skin around her knuckles is paler than her hands. It’s odd, but she flinches when her nails dig into her palm a little too much. That’s when she decides to loosen her hold on the seatbelt, but it doesn’t keep her hands from shaking.

Three, and this is the most important realisation, she finds that she likes it. She likes the rush, the thrill that fills her veins despite her shaking hands and the hummingbird wings fluttering of her heart. There’s something so delightful in breaking the rules while looking as proper as they do. It’s exhilarating in a way that’s so far removed from the girl she used to be, a way that’s sure to have Henry shaking his head at her should he ever find out.

It’s this final realisation that elicits a soft giggle from her lips, and Emery shoots her a questioning look.

“It’s thrilling,” she whispers to him. It may just be a figment of her imagination, but she swears he _smiles_ , and immediately she’s struck by how conventionally attractive all three of them are. Just as she drew comparisons between Letha’s breakfast routine (that she’s now part of), she can’t help but draw comparisons to how mousy little Wendy Darling would look next to them.

It’s not a pretty image.

They’re pristine marble, invincible and untouchable.

She’s a dormouse of a girl, small and prone to leaving her footprints where she goes.

Before she can think on it any more, the car stops. A glance outside confirms that they’re at Granny’s and though she thinks her legs would give out once she steps out of the car, she’s still the first one out.

“You okay?” Letha’s the second one to alight, and the blonde catches her just before she stumbles.

She takes a moment to compose herself before she nods. In the time it took for that to happen, the boys joined them, and it’s Vince who ruffles her hair before they steer her inside. The atmosphere among the four of them is brilliant for a few moments, and Wendy can feel a smile stretching her lips into a grin. Then it drops when she spots the familiar green of a jacket belonging to the one person she didn’t want to see so soon—Pan.

“Wendy?” Letha’s soft whisper accompanies a soft poke to her side, and she shakes herself out of the constant replay of yesterday’s encounter with Pan. She’s _not_ going to think about that arsehole, especially not now. Not when she’s got an actual group of people who want her around.

“Just thinking about the stuff that’s due this week,” she admits, a sheepish smile on her face. From across the table, Emery lets out a snort.

“You fucking nerd.” Her cheeks immediately flame, but she rolls her eyes.

“I know I am, but at least I don’t procrastinate.”

“Ooh, I’m so scared of someone who doesn’t procrastinate.”

“You should be,” Vince says, jabbing his elbow into the taller male’s side. “Means she’s got her shit together, unlike you.” From beside her, Letha bursts into a fit of giggles, while Wendy contents herself with a quiet ‘oof’. Soon enough, she successfully banishes her former classmate to the back of her mind, and she doesn’t even see him when they leave the diner thirty minutes later.

In fact, she doesn’t even think about him at all for the entirety of the first week, and before she knows it, the weekend is only fifteen minutes away. Letha chooses this time to turn in her seat and send her a brilliant smile, to which she responds with a slight tilt of her head.

“Would your parents let you sleep over at my place?”

“What.”

“You heard me. Would they?”

She thinks for a moment, then nods. “Mum likes you well enough, and Dad… Well, Mum’s usually able to persuade him.” Letha had been the only one so far that her family had met, and she’d made a brilliant (and lasting) impression on her parents and brothers, a fact that they could easily take advantage of.

“Ask them, will you? Emery and Vincent are joining us, obviously.”

“Well I’m not telling them _that_. They’ll never let me go.”

“Obviously,” chuckled the blonde, and she turns back to the front, just in time for the teacher to face the class once more. With ten minutes left until her first ever sleepover, Wendy can’t help but drown out the droning from their extra-curriculars adviser. Having read the handbook last night, she more or less knows what she wants to take.

She and Letha meet up with the boys by the quad, just as they did during lunch earlier on. Emery takes the liberty of propping his arm upon her head in greeting, while Vince smiles at the two girls.

“You going to the party tomorrow?” Asks the blond, and she quirks a brow in response. Letha, on the other hand, hits the arm that isn’t propped on her head.

“I haven’t told her yet, dummy.”

It’s Vince who saves her from further confusion, gently taking her by the arm and leaving the two blondes behind. “We usually kick off the new school year with a party,” he explains, leading her towards the car, “and everyone’s usually invited, so we thought Letha would’ve told you.”

“She just told me there would be a sleepover,” she says, head tilted to the side at the prospect. Parties weren’t her thing back in middle school—she usually spent her weekends reading and staying on top of her academics. But, whispers a little voice in her head, this is _high school_. Things can change. People can change. Who says she’ll dislike parties forever, anyway?

A chuckle from the brunet tears her away from her thoughts. “Yeah, the sleepover is so that we can iron out the details.” There’s a conspiratory grin on his face as he leans down and whispers, “Letha’s a perfectionist for events planning, but don’t tell her I said that.”

By the time Letha and Emery arrive at the car, she’s managed to stop giggling—and Vince somehow convinced her to be in the front seat.

“We’re dropping her off first.” Is the response to Emery’s questioning look, and the four of them settle in for the drive home.

Thankfully, no speed limits were broken that afternoon.

Miraculously, her parents agreed to both the sleepover _and_ the party, though she suspects it’s because Letha was smiling and reassuring her parents that both would be simple get-togethers, albeit with a different number of attendees. And that’s how she finds herself in the car yet again, her schoolbag in her house (pros of always being on top of her academics: she doesn’t have to do anything over the weekend) and an overnight bag in her lap.

She didn’t think adjusting to a new school would be _this_ easy, but as she glances around at the people who all but adopted her into their group, a bout of gratitude wells up in her chest. Her first sleepover, and her first party, all in the same weekend. How much better can this week get?


End file.
